


Bright Spark into a Flame

by deirdre_c



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam convinces him to camp out in front of the fireplace, Dean discovers that it's not so bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Spark into a Flame

“It’ll be fun,” Sam says, carrying another armload of blankets down the main stairs of the abandoned house they’d broken into yesterday.

“I’m disturbed that your idea of ‘fun’ consists of building a pillow fort. You do realize you’re not eight, right? Hell, even at eight, I was too cool for this.” It’s pretty weak, as far as quality mockery goes, but ragging on Sam is in Dean’s job description, and a guy’s gotta meet quota.

He tags along behind Sam, trailing his fingers along the fancy, textured wallpaper lining the hallway and hitting the light switch when they reach the door to the basement.

They’d needed a place to crash after their latest hunt and just happened across this prize: a massive, tricked-out mansion of a place tucked back on a couple of acres with the foreclosed sign out at the head of a long driveway. It’s a squatter’s wet dream. The basement alone is cavernous, as large as some whole houses, with all the comforts of home. Dean’s already had a field day with the wet bar, pool table, and this crazy, brass-lined walk-in wine cellar and cigar humidor that he wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

For some reason, Sam’s gotten it into his head to camp out in front of the basement’s huge fireplace for the evening, despite the fact that there are at least eleven perfectly serviceable beds upstairs, ten of which they haven’t even tried yet. But far be it from Dean to argue— much— with one of Sam’s pansy schemes. He slides onto the red leather seat of one of the high barstools against the bar and watches as Sam dumps these latest blankets on top of the heap of pillows and comforters already laid out before the massive stone hearth and leans over, stretching to spread them out.

All it takes is Sam’s ass in the air, and Dean’s mind immediately starts running through all the things he could do to Sam there on those blankets, in vivid detail. He decides that perhaps this isn’t such a crap idea after all. “Where did you even find all those?”

“They’re called ‘linen closets’ for a reason, Dean.”

Dean leans back, elbows on the bar. “Am I supposed to slip a pea under there somewhere? Find out if you’re a _real_ princess?”

“Blow me.”

He offers his best leer. “I guarantee it.”

Sam shoots him a hot look, but keeps fiddling the blankets. “I’m holding you to that. Let me grab us some dinner first.”

Fortunately, even though the fridge and freezer had been cleaned out, they’d found a pantry still stocked with non-perishables and had been eating from that stock. By the time Dean gets a good fire laid and started, flames still bright yellow and new, Sam has them set up in front of it with heaping helpings of Cajun red beans and rice and a fine bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label.

Earlier, Dean had messed around with the bigscreen tv in the corner, but found there’s no cable or satellite service or DVD player and neither of them have the energy for pool, which would necessarily involve standing up, so they end up, as usual, defaulting to card games. They start out with piquet and gin but eventually switch to poker as Sam’s ability to strategize or even keep score plummets in proportion to the level of booze left in the bottle.

At some point, Dean throws too many logs on at once, causing the fire to crank out some serious BTUs and, rather than try to move their blanket set-up, they end up stripping down to underwear and tees. This is just fine with Dean, because sitting cross-legged on the floor in his jeans was starting to chafe. Besides, it gives him an excuse to make another few cracks about slumber parties and hair-braiding while enjoying tantalizing glimpses of Sam whenever the front slit in his boxers gapes open.

Dean lets Sam win the last hand and sits back, takes another swig and listens to the flutter of cards as Sam idly shuffles and reshuffles the deck.

The ruddy dance of the fire is half-hypnotizing and for a moment Dean just sits, enjoying the warm, buoyant feeling filling his chest. Then Sam slants him a look from behind the thatch of hair that he’s been letting grow out over his eyes. Dean hasn’t seen a more blatant come-hither look since Amy O’Toole lured him behind the bleachers in tenth grade, and that lightness in Dean’s chest thickens and melts and rolls down to pool low in his gut.

“So,” Sam says, grabbing the hem of his tee with both hands and stripping it off, wobbling a little when it pops over his head. He throws it to the side, but Dean doesn’t notice where it lands, he’s too busy watching the firelight paint copper across the planes of Sam’s shoulders and chest and abs. Sam lounges back into the blankets, stretching his arms over his head, displaying himself like an all-Dean-can-eat buffet, “Didn’t you say something about fucking in every room of the house?”

“Shit, yeah, I think I did.” Dean stands and whips off his own shirt, the chill of the room even a few steps away from the fire raising goosebumps on his skin. “Hold that thought for two seconds. Lemme go grab some more wood.” He crosses over to the nearby sliding glass door, making sure Sam’s got a good view of his ass.

He opens the door to a frigid blast of November air and leans out just far enough to snag three good-sized logs from the stack of firewood piled high against the outside wall. He walks back to the hearth and flips open the screen, tossing his armful in and watching the flames perk up around the new fuel. He lets the warmth bake into his chilled skin for a minute, absentmindedly scratching one hand over his belly and then reaching down to adjust his eager cock. At that reminder, he reaches up to the mantle to grab the bottle of massage oil he’d found in an upstairs bathroom and had stashed here if – when—something came up.

Ha. _Came up._ Yeah, he’s just that good.

Turning to wave the bottle in triumph, Dean discovers Sam flipped over on his belly. His face is smashed into the pillow, arms crossed under his head. Dean’s eyes wander over the arch of his back; the long line of his spine is a purple-shadowed furrow the gold of the firelight can’t reach. Dean pauses a moment, trying to decide whether the wants to straddle those narrow hips and bite and tongue across the broad expanse of salt-spicy skin or push Sam’s knees up under him, spread his ass open, and lick him where it counts.

His mouth starts to water.

“You ready?” he asks, but Sam doesn’t answer, just lies there waiting for whatever Dean plans to do with him. Dean hasn’t quite settled on what that is going to be, but he knows it involves making Sam beg, nice and pretty.

Dean kneels on the makeshift bed, then lies down to press full-length up against Sam, sliding a hand down his smooth, fire-warmed flank, only to discover Sam’s not teasing Dean with his silence, he’s… he’s fucking _passed out_.

Incredulous, Dean nudges his half-hard cock up against Sam’s hip, then kicks him not-so-lightly in the shin, trying for some response. All he gets is a wet snuffle for his effort.

He flops over on his back with a huff. The ceiling is spinning just a bit overhead, but glowering at it makes it stop. He considers various ways of waking Sam up-- a bucket of cold water features high on the list. Unfortunately, none of them are likely to lead to Dean getting laid, so he resigns himself to rubbing one out solo.

Really, there’s no reason he should be so hard up; they’ve already fucked around three times since they got here. But stupid Sam had to go get him all wound up with the fire and the glancing and the shirt-taking-off and now Sam’s just sitting there like pie on the counter underneath one of those protective domes and Dean’s fork clinking against the glass and--

He abandons that train of thought before he gets any more ridiculous and goes to pour out some of massage oil from the bottle still in his hand, figuring a little lube might smooth the way of a quick hand job. Maybe he should spooge into Sam’s hair at the end, for kicks.

Tip, slip, tilt, and suddenly there’s a huge, messy handful of oil overflowing his cupped hand. Dean flinches and automatically slaps the excess onto the wide expanse of Sam’s back to keep it from spilling all over the bedding.

“Fuck, sorry, man,” Dean blurts out. But, even sloppy with massage oil, Sam doesn’t stir.

Dean tries to wipe a little away. It’s thin and warm from the proximity to the fire, smelling of sandalwood and musk and made for sex. God, what a waste. Spitefully, he thinks it would’ve been more appropriate for Sam had it turned out to be one of those frou-frou flowery rosepetal scents and starts tracing “Samantha is a pussy” with one finger across Sam’s back. He gets mixed up somewhere among the _m_ s and _n_ s and ends up doodling nonsensical patterns that mimic the swirls of smoke rising up the flue.

Dean’s head spins. The firelight makes the room swim and flicker. Dean stops to watch as a rivulet of oil rolls down the edge of Sam’s spine like melted bronze flowing into a mold, making Sam’s muscles twitch, a sequence of tiny shudders.

Now, Dean recognizes that he’s pretty buzzed and Sam, well, he’s practically anesthetized, and they really both need to sleep it off. But Sam’s right there under his hands, boneless and oblivious and made to be touched.

Slowly, slowly, Dean slides his hand beneath the waistband of Sam’s boxers to cup one round cheek, palming over the firm muscle and smooth skin.

It’s warm there, and even warmer where his slicked-up fingertips curve into the cleft of Sam’s ass. And for all the times his hand has been here, this time feels the most illicit, secret even from Sam, like it hasn’t been since they were young and Dean watched Sam from the corners of his eyes. Dean can’t help it, he squeezes lightly, lets his fingers drift lower to brush against the hidden underside of Sam’s balls. Sam’s ass tenses and flexes slightly under his hand, and Dean’s cock twitches in response.

He thinks about the times he’s been woken up by Sam’s caresses or even Sam giving him a surprise _good morning_ blow job, and thinks he could wake Sam if he really tries, wouldn’t even need a water bucket. Heck, Dean could find Sam’s hot buttons blindfolded.

But, the truth is— he presses lightly against Sam’s balls again— he doesn’t want Sam awake for this. He wants this all to himself. The temptation to touch without thought of reaction, to test how far he can go, to have, to indulge, to seize and slip away unnoticed, it pulls at Dean like undertow.

He wonders what it says about him, that he’s getting off on the thought of touching Sam without his knowledge. He loves the way Sam gives himself completely when they fuck, letting Dean take the lead, offering him everything he wants; but right now, having Sam unaware, untroubled, blameless, just being able to—to _take_ from him, it’s winding Dean up, turning him on so he can barely think straight.

His hands tremble a little when he tucks them under Sam at hip and shoulder, carefully rolling him onto his back. He freezes when Sam’s eyelashes flutter and he breathes out a quiet sigh, even though it would be easy enough for Dean to churn out a quick excuse about snoring or something if Sam did awaken right then. Not so easy, though, after Dean licks his lips and oh-so-gently hooks his thumbs into Sam’s boxers to ease them out from under him, down and off.

Dean decides to push his luck, carefully clasps Sam’s right wrist and underneath his elbow and gently moves his arm so that it’s stretched up above his head. He reaches over and does the same to Sam’s left arm, so that when he’s done positioning him, Sam’s stretched out, unresisting and vulnerable before him, the softening glow of the fire licking up and down his torso.

He’s almost unbearably gorgeous. His face is tilted carelessly to the side, his soft cock resting in the silky nest of curls between his legs. One time, right after Stanford, Dean had teased him about being out of hunting form, and Sam had clearly taken it to heart. Nowadays Sam’s religious about PT-- situps and pushups and long runs in the mornings when he can-- and it fucking shows; his body’s like a piece of art. And he’s all Dean’s.

God help him, it’s a rush, thinking about taking his own pleasure in touching, every curve and angle and cut, all his to enjoy.

Dean swiftly slips out of his briefs so that he’s naked, too. The fire has settled down to a steady burn, its previous sharp crackles muted to the occasional snap and hiss that echo in the shadowy corners of the basement. His stomach flips at one particularly loud _pop_ , fearing any moment Sam will wake and break the spell. This jittery, sparky feeling in his gut does nothing to dispel Dean’s arousal; he’s harder than ever, can feel his dick thick and heavy between his thighs.

He doesn’t know where to start, grazing his fingers across Sam’s abs, ghosting up over his chest, up to stroke a bruise he’d sucked into Sam’s collarbone that morning, small and red, back down to brush across one nipple, lightly flicking back and forth until it raises up, taut and proud.

Sam squirms slightly at that and lets out a soft _ah_ , and Dean freezes, heartbeat loud in his ears, places his palm flat over Sam’s heart until he settles again. So good, so trusting, any other touch would have him leaping to defense like a nervous cat, but Dean’s just sends him deeper. A craving for more surges through him, and any remorse he supposes he should be feeling is swallowed up in this strange, heady amalgamation of worship for Sam’s body and furtive power over it.

He shifts, skin prickling, and his knee knocks into the bottle of oil, almost spilling again. He grabs at it, grips it and stares for a moment, then pops the cap again, holding it just barely above Sam’s belly and carefully pouring out liquid to form a glistening pool in Sam’s navel. Dean dips in to coat his finger and then traces the faint trail of dark hair arrowing down Sam’s belly to his groin.

Sam’s cock has already started taking notice of Dean’s ministrations, rising up against Sam’s thigh. It’s delicious, not fully hard yet, just thick and flushed. Dean taps the tip to leave a shimmering bead of oil there, and the minute Dean’s finger smoothes over him, Sam sighs and his thighs instinctively move apart, falling open. Not much, just an inch, but it’s enough to make Dean push the heel of his hand ruthlessly into his own cock to keep from blowing up at the sight.

A sense of mingled inevitability and anticipation builds in Dean moment by moment. He’s starting to realize it’s not going to just be enough to touch, or fantasize over Sam’s sleeping form to get himself off, or whatever this started as. Now Dean needs to see how far he can go, how long he can keep Sam loose, pliant, unconscious even as he… Well, as he does this.

Dean slips his hand lightly behind Sam’s left knee. The skin there is supple and hairless, tender under Dean’s light grip. He quickly glances at Sam’s blank face-- eyes still closed, brow smooth, lips wet and slightly parted-- then draws Sam’s leg outward and up. He has to force himself to go slow, slower, exerting cautious but inexorable pressure until Sam’s knee is almost level with his hip. He nudges at the right leg too until there’s finally room for him to kneel between Sam’s welcoming thighs.

His natural inclination is to lean down, take Sam’s hardening cock in his mouth, and swallow it until he’s bucking uncontrollably into Dean’s mouth. But tonight is different; tonight is Dean’s alone.

Avoiding Sam’s erection, Dean scoops up some of the oil still puddled in Sam’s bellybutton. With the other hand he carefully raises Sam’s leg up and slips his shoulder underneath for support, so that the cheeks of Sam’s ass are spread open wide.

He sucks in a breath, then lightly touches Sam’s taut entrance, watching it flinch under his finger. He brushes across it, twice, three times, oiling it up. He starts making circular motions around the sensitive ridge, round and round, slow caresses with just the tip against the outside. Sam squirms, muscles clenching, letting out a low moan, and Dean’s heart jumps against his chest.

He thinks back to when they were in the shower together last night, when Dean slipped two fingers up into Sam like it was nothing. He thinks about how, asleep, Sam’s going to be even looser, more open, more yielding.

But he’s not. When Dean finally allows himself to press into Sam’s opening, even slicked up, his one finger has to work its way inside. The smooth-tight muscles inside Sam clench around the knuckle as he wriggles his way slowly, just a little deeper, _just let me in, Sammy._

It’s hard, _Dean’s_ hard. He strains for patience, easing his finger in and out, fumbling to pour more lube onto it to smooth the way for another, when all he can imagine is how hot and tight he would be— _will_ be— split open around Dean’s rigid cock. His cock that’s throbbing in time with his head and the pound of his heartbeat and the blood that’s churning through his veins nearly at a boiling point.

He loses it then, as if the wave he was riding suddenly crashes over him, drowning him in want and urgency and the need to bury himself deep inside Sam, damn the consequences. He draws out of Sam, stilling for a moment, listening for Sam’s breathing, deep and even. He is _out_ , not even giving those earlier noises and shivers. He’s just a warm, pliant bulk underneath Dean, legs akimbo, spread open, his tiny hole slick and glistening in the flickering firelight.

Dean quickly shuffles forward on his knees and positions his cock, ready to push his way into Sam’s body, to feel that familiar, perfect grip around him, but he can’t, quite, get the right angle.

He leans closer, holding Sam’s ass open a little wider with his left hand, his aching dick rubbing across Sam’s entrance, slippery with lube, but the head won’t slide in. Cursing under his breath, he tries again and again, the hand he’s holding himself up with clenched in the bedding, crouching lower, a different approach. Every thrust of his hips gets him closer and closer without success, and even when he takes himself in hand and _aims_ it into Sam, he can’t slide in, the position all wrong.

Goddamn, this would’ve been easier if he’d left Sam lying on his belly.

He lets out a tiny noise in the back of his throat, it’s not a whimper, really. It’s just, he’s dying here, and Sam’s hips are flat on the floor instead of curled up to meet him.

A pillow might help, so Dean reaches out to snag on nearby, gets his hand higher on Sam’s thigh, tries to lift him to stuff it underneath his pelvis, but it gets bunched under one hip. Dean’s helplessly rutting, frustrated, futile, up under Sam’s balls, desperate for friction, and Sam is heavy as fuck, his long leg a dead weight over Dean’s shoulder. How is it possible that Sam’s even still aslee—

Dean’s gaze immediately snaps to Sam’s face and his stomach turns to ice.

Sam’s awake, eyes half-lidded and glittering in the dimness. His arms aren’t stretched up above his head where Dean put them, they’re casually crossed behind his head as if he’s hanging out, watching tv or something. He raises his eyebrows nonchalantly, “Having fun?”

“Sam!“ Dean yelps, horrified. He jerks back, hands whipping off of Sam’s thighs as if they’re scalding, bile rising in his throat. Fuck, what was he possibly thinking? He was molesting Sam _in his sleep_. “Sam, I—I didn’t mean—You—“

Sam doesn’t bother letting him come up with some lame excuse, just grabs Dean by the shoulders and pulls. Dean tenses, readies for Sam to beat the living shit out of him like he deserves, but instead Sam wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, canting his hips upward so that Dean’s whole weight falls across him and, amazingly, his cock slots home deep inside Sam’s body.

He gasps at the shock. It’s so sudden and intense, embarrassment and remorse and lust and relief all swirling through him in a rush of sensation. His whole body sings with the familiar sweet hot grip of Sam around him and he bites down on his lip to stop from coming up inside of Sam right then.

He dares to look at Sam’s face. “You’re not mad?”

Sam finally lets loose with a smirk he’d been hiding. “I think you learned your lesson. Didn’t sound like you were exactly having a good time. Besides…” Sam tosses his head back, neck exposed. His next words are a growl, voice deepening to husky invitation. “Do you have any idea how fucking hot that was? Lying still? Pretending to be out of it? Letting you do whatever you wanted to?”

Dean can’t believe it’s that easy, the guilt and frustration draining out of him, replaced by elation at the reminder once more of just how awesome Sam really is. He feels a wicked smile grow on his face, and he fucks down, swiveling his hips a little, and a groan breaks free from Sam, low and broken at the edges. “Liked that, did you? Well, turns out it takes two to tango, Sammy.”

Carefully, deliberately, Dean presses in, aiming for that sweet spot. He knows that he’s hit it when Sam rears up suddenly, hitching his hips and his breath. He takes his weight on his hands, pulls his hips back within the circle of Sam’s legs, leaving just the thick tip inside Sam, and then shoves back in hard enough to slide Sam’s whole body up the floor, rucking up the blankets underneath him and forcing a chain of rasping moans from Sam’s throat as Dean snaps his hips in and in and in.

Sam arches his body up to meet Dean’s, his grip biting into Dean’s shoulders, his heels digging into his back, undeniably on board with Dean. Dean savors every movement, every roll of Sam’s hips, how they fit together perfectly, looks down to see them moving in tandem, watches his oil-slickened cock sink inside until Sam’s balls brush against Dean’s belly.

"So good, fuck," Sam murmurs, head thrown back in pleasure. "Just like that, getting so deep."

Light gleams amber and gold over Sam’s torso, shadows cutting deep grooves where his pecs and abs flex and shift. He's heartbreakingly beautiful and, like the first time, like every time, Dean can't believe Sam’s _giving_ him this. He’s so stupid not to have known. It’s so much better than taking, evidence right here writhing beneath him.

Dean leans in, grabs Sam’s jaw. “Look at me.” Sam’s cheeks are flushed pink, his breath is coming in broken little pants. Dean runs his thumb over Sam’s soft, open mouth, catching the wet puffs of breath in his palm as they rush out. Why did he ever think anything could be better than losing himself in Sam’s eyes, dark and glazed with alcohol and desire. “You ready?”

“I’m ready,” Sam swears.

He wraps his hand around Sam’s cock, heavy and leaking, and _goes_.

Hard and fast, he pounds into Sam until he’s a trembling mess, urging him on, begging for it, knowing it’s Dean’s to give. Every word Sam speaks is lighting Dean up, spiking across his nerves until he can't think, can't breathe, just needs Sam to _come_. Now, now, now. Dean works his hand faster on Sam's cock, unrelenting, fingers now apart, now together; he thrums his thumb across the head, then presses firmly under the ridge and his brother shouts—filthy curses and pleas and Dean’s name all blending together—legs clenching brutally tight against Dean’s ribs as his cock jumps in Dean’s hand, pouring hot over his fingers.

And that’s just it. The gates open and his hands dig into the tender skin of Sam’s thighs as he simultaneously lifts up and thrusts down hard, over and over, his previously steady rhythm shattered in favor of frantic little jerks, desperate to come as if he hasn’t in _months_ instead of that morning. His muscles seize and his blood ignites, his orgasm rushing through him in a painful blaze, too bright, too searing, and he goes a little blind from it, his dick buried in Sam’s ass and his face buried in Sam’s chest, screaming out his release.

“Yeah. Like that,” Sam’s murmuring beneath him, almost crooning. He hitches himself up farther, practically bent in half. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, come on. Fill me up.”

It’s not like Dean can help it, even if he wanted to, his come coursing out of him in heavy pulses, each little rut of his hips shoving it further into Sam, slicking him generous and deep.

It goes on forever, or at least Dean wants it to, until he finds he’s slowly collapsing down onto Sam’s chest, unraveling, Sam absently mouthing at Dean’s shoulder, until finally they both still, sweaty and sticky and chests heaving together as they gulp in air in rhythm.

Sam’s legs are shaking when Dean pulls out and climbs off, not that Dean can blame him exactly, Dean’s own nerves still throbbing with the force of his release.

"Goddamn," Dean wheezes, flopping down beside Sam and staring sightlessly over at the dying fire in the hearth.

The basement is cold in the aftermath and Dean feels Sam shiver. He rolls Sam over onto his side, closer to the deep, ebbing heat of the cherry-red embers and curls himself up against Sam’s back, scootching around to yank at one of the comforters that got tangled up beneath them and pull it up around them.

He presses closer, letting his eyes fall shut and nudging up Sam’s thigh up a little with his knee, enough that he can reach down and run a finger once more around the rim of Sam’s hole, playing lazily with the mix of oil and his own come that’s starting to leak out. Sam shivers again. Then he mutters into the pillow, voice bleary and spent, “You wanted to go back upstairs?”

Dean shushes into his hair and nips at the nape of his neck. “Naw. This is good. Go to sleep.”

"Mmmph," Sam huffs. “Tried that before. Now I have to be worried I might miss something good.”

Dean snorts. “I think it’s your turn to wake _me_ up. You’re always the fucking Early Bird.”

“Does that mean I get the worm?” He can hear the smirk in Sam’s voice as he pushes his hips back suggestively into Dean’s hand.

Dean groans and presses his forehead into the musky hollow between Sam’s shoulder blades. “Softball.”

“Yep.”

“”Night, Sam.”

Sam pulls Dean’s arm around so that his palm rests over Sam’s heart and sighs. “’Night.”

Dean falls asleep to the sound Sam’s snores and the soft rustle of consumed wood collapsing into ash.


End file.
